Something About Those Winchester Boys
by ThereLiesMySanity
Summary: There is something about the Winchester boys that makes even perfect strangers stop to wonder. This is a collection of the thoughts of some such people, particularly focusing on the unique bond the brothers share. A bit overdone, I know, but bare with me here.
1. Chapter 1

There was something about those winchester boys, something that pulled at Lora Margret's heartstrings and warmed her from the inside better than any cup of hot coffee could ever hope to. There was a tragedy in their past, Lora could tell-call it a mother's instinct. But as much as she wanted to bundle the both of them up in thick fluffy blankets and feed them sweets and protect them from all the sadness in the world, Lora knew they wouldn't be nearly as close if nothing bad had happened. For the world to miss out on the tangible bond they shared would have been a horrible shame.

As a mother of three, two boys and one girl, not to mention an elementary school teacher, Lora knew how most siblings behaved. Sure, siblings looked out for each other, but simply saying the WInchesters cared for one another didn't even begin to describe their relationship. Yes, describing them as "close" would be the understatement of the century.

Little Sam Winchester (not Sammy, she had learned, only his brother could call him that) was in Lora's first grade class, and he was just the sweetest little angel she had ever seen. He could get away with murder with those big Bambi eyes and sweet, soft spoken words. He would be a real charmer when he grew up, Lora could tell. Not that he ever had to use his magic powers of was quite possibly the nicest kid she had ever met.

While the rest of Lora's class ran, yelled, fought, and otherwise played, Sam sat quietly in some corner with a book. He never involved himself in arguments, sometimes even offering compromises to cool disagreements before they heated up. Occasionally he would let himself be drawn into a game or two, but he always seemed to end up calmly slipping away to wherever he left his book.

That was another strange quirk associated with Sam: his calm. No matter what situation he was put in, from a bee landing on the tip of his nose to someone stealing his pudding cup at lunchtime, he kept his head and either waited patiently for directions or came up with an easy way to solve the problem on his own. His problem solving skills were phenomenal, especially for a six year old.

Now Sam's brother...well. Dean Winchester took his cues from an entirely different book. Strike that, Dean was from a whole different _library._ While his little brother was all soft edges and thoughtfulness, Deam was loud, brash, and jagged. He had automatically taken his rightful place at the top of the food chain, holding nearly every student in the school in a state of constant awe. Unlike Sam, who unknowingly manipulated people with an overload of cuteness and never for his own gain, Dean was fully aware of his undeniable charm and way with words, using them to his full potential. In fact, the only thing he had going for him that he _didn't_ use to always get his way was his intelligence.

According to his teacher, Dean was probably one of the brightest students their small school had ever seen. He would be at least at the top of his class if he actually tried at all. That was the problem, though. Dean had never done a single homework problem, never tried in class unless the subject appealed to him, and didn't plan on trying any extracurriculars. It was a well known fact that the rules just didn't apply to the great Dean Winchester, and he'd only been at this school for a week and a half.

Dean was definitely a rule-breaker, and if his looks were anything to go on, a heart-breaker, gliding through life on a wave of rebellion with a wink and his infamous smirk. He made a point to never follow an order without snide comments, idiotic questions, and slipping in and out of every loophole he could find. Dean danced through life leaving a fiery trail in his wake, never looking back and laughing madly all the way. Somehow he managed to be the new kid, the class clown, the bad boy, and the best big brother in the world all at once while making it look as easy as breathing.

"The best big brother in the world" was no hyperbole. Every day without fail,Dean would be waiting in the hall outside Lora's classroom door when class got out. Sam would shout out his brother's name happily when he escaped the confines of the classroom, and Dean would respond with and equally joyous, "Sammy!" Sam would run straight to his brother and Dean would swoop him up in his arms with surprising strength, letting Sam cling to him like they hadn't seen each other in years. In reality, it had only been a matter of hours since Dean dropped Sam off at the classroom door that morning.

Sam's somber attitude seemed to melt away when he saw his brother. Carefully thought out words and respectful tones flew out the window as he chattered aimlessly and tugged Dean around by the hand. Sam became the energetic ball of energy expected of a boy his age, Dean playing the parts of parent, older brother, and best friend with ease only gained by experience. Sam would hand his belongings to Dean, sometimes even tossing something over his shoulder with full confidence his big brother would catch it, and the first time Lora had seen it had made her understand why Sam moved like he was missing a part of himself. That's what they seemed to be, even at first glance: one soul in two bodies, a puzzle missing a piece when they weren't side by side.

Then Dean would slip of his worn, too-big leather jacket and wrap it over Sam's thin shoulders, and Sam would snuggle into it, tucking it around his nose and breathing in real deep. It made Lora ache with near-physical pain, not because of the way the tension drained out of Sam's wiry frame as he leaned against his brother or even how Dean's snarky attitude and ridiculous grin faded into something almost tender when he looked at his brother, but because it was the middle of winter. The fact that it hadn't been above 40 degrees in a month and Dean was wearing nothing on his upper body but a worn t-shirt didn't stop him from making sure his brother wasn't cold.

The ache in Lora's chest would grow even stronger as Sam protested, insisting Dean take his jacket back because Dean needed to stay warm, too. Children Sam's age shouldn't be that completely selfless. Heck, Sam shouldn't have to consider it in the first place. And fifth graders shouldn't be playing mom for their younger sibling or worrying about anything other than homework and sports practice. But nonetheless, Dean would state, "the cold can't hurt me-I'm Batman, remember?" and Sam would giggle as his big brother led him out of the school with an arm around his shoulders.


	2. Chapter 2

There was something about those Winchester boys; something that made Mrs. Vanessa Morgan want to cry tears of both joy and sadness. Sam, the younger of the two at seven years old, was the very image of a perfect student. Dean, age eleven, was the complete opposite. He caused trouble at every opportunity and maintained a role as the most popular kid in the entire county. Sure, Woodbridge elementary was a tiny school, but still. The Winchesters had only been in town for three weeks. What makes them stand out (even to the teachers) among all one hundred and twelve students, you might ask? There was a tangible bond between the two brothers, stronger than anything Mrs. Morgan had seen in all forty years of teaching. Honestly, she had figured she had seen every possible degree of sibling love/hate, but Sam and Dean took sibling bonds to a whole new level.

Dean was perfectly attuned to Sam's every need, sometimes acting like more of a mother than an older brother to the boy. With the amount of catering to Sam's will Dean participated in, you would have thought him a pushover. Really, though, Sam was the only person Dean ever seemed to give in to. And that was another thing-any little kid with the power to make Dean Winchester do whatever he wanted must be spoiled and bratty enough for both the brothers, and then some, right? But Sam remained kind and modest, never misusing his power over his brother or expecting the same treatment from the rest of the world. Between the two of them, Mrs. Morgan doubted she had ever seen so much selflessness at once.

Mrs. Morgan was actively watching the proof: Sam and Dean were boarding the bus that would take them on a field trip to Savannah, Georgia for the weekend, and Dean was carrying all the bags, while Sam...oh, there he was behind his brother, carrying bags for someone else.

The last stragglers stumbled up the steps of the bus and found seats, and then they were off. Mrs. Morgan would have cursed her luck at drawing the short straw and being stuck to chaperone the back of the bus alone if her seating arrangement hadn't placed her right behind the Winchesters. The Winchester brothers never failed to light up her day, or night, as it was. Mrs. Morgan wasn't sure who had decided it would be a good idea to put a bunch of elementary school kids on a bus that would have to contain them until five o'clock the next morning, but if she ever found out who, well, let's just say she would have to retire a bit earlier then she had planned. Due to, er, disciplinary reasons.

Mrs. Morgan tuned out the driver's safety lecture in favor of watching Dean tease his little brother. Sam was scowling playfully, and slapped Dean's hand in retaliation for ruffling his hair. Dean just laughed softly and did it again, leading to an enthusiastic tackle from Sam. The smaller was quickly put into place, forced down when Dean flopped practically on top of him. It was moments like these that really made onlookers realize that, in addition to being brothers, Sam and Dean were the closest of friends. Based on their extensive file and the amount of times they had moved, that was no surprise. Most big brothers would find it awfully uncool to hang out with their younger siblings, though, yet Dean always went to Sam if he had the choice. Not only had he chosen to sit with his brother of the bus, but he had signed up to share a room with him (Mrs. Morgan would know-she had been the one who had to double check _every single_ permission slip). Granted, that could just be because their parent made them, but somehow, Mrs. Morgan didn't think that was the case.

Most of the brother's words were hidden by the general din on the bus coupled with the rumble of the engine. It wasn't until most of the students had settled down to rest that Mrs. Morgan actually heard a full conversation.

"Alright, Sammy, time for you to get some sleep."  
"But I'm not tired!" that was it, not a single 'you can't tell me what to do' like it was perfectly normal for a big brother to declare bedtime.

"Sammy…" Dean's tone was a gentle warning many seasoned parents couldn't manage, and Sam sighed.

"Fine. Pass me the blanket."

"Do I hear a 'please?'"

"Shut up and gimme the blanket, jerk."

Dean chuckled and handed their blanket to his brother. "Bitch."

Mrs. Morgan would have told him off for his language if it weren't for the incredible fondness lacing his tone.

Sam struggled to wrap the blanket around himself, ending up with it twisted around his left leg and shoulders with a huff of exasperation. Dean chuckled again. "C'mere, Sammy. I've got the blanket."

Sam curled into his brother's side without hesitation, using Dean's chest as a pillow and laying halfway on top of his lap. Dean curled himself around Sam almost protectively, tucking the blanket around them both. Their moves seemed practised, like they had done this a thousand times and would do it a thousand more.

"Go to sleep, Sam."  
"G'night, Dean."

A fond smile crossed Mrs. Morgan's face, but her relaxed features carried nowhere near the amount of tenderness that Dean's did as he looked down at the boy in his arms. Sam was already asleep, letting out soft puffs of breath akin to snores. It wasn't long before Dean followed him into the dreamland, hand going limp where it had been combing through Sam's hair.

Although the others on the bus woke up from uneasy sleep frequently due to bumpy roads and cramped muscles and the occasional sneeze, the only time the Winchester brothers stirred was for Dean to readjust the blanket where it had slipped off of them and Sam to pull his brother's over sized leather jacket over his head to block out the light of passing cars and streetlights. Dean had smiled and curled himself tighter around his brother like he was the only thing that mattered in the entire universe, and no, those were absolutely not tears on Mrs' Morgan's cheek.


	3. Chapter 3

There was something about those Winchester boys, something that made Fran Mendel's skin crawl.

They had moved into the house across the street not that long ago. The only thing attractive about that old pile of half-rotten boards and dust was it's rent. It was no place to raise children, that was for sure, and Fran made sure her son stayed well away from it. Then again, the man that rented the place didn't look to be much for raising children, either.

The day they moved in was a Sunday, and Fran had been so startled by the low rumble that was their car's engine that she nearly dropped her just-out-of-the-oven peanut butter cookies all over the floor. Not that dropping them on the floor would have made them inedible, because Miss Fran Mendel was one of those people who kept her kitchen tiles clean enough to eat mashed potatoes off of. Even so, Fran thanked God she was holding the tray over the counter when the fancy black car pulled into the cracked driveway of the empty house.

No one in Fran's town had a car even remotely like _that,_ unless you counted Old Farmer Jimmy's ancient Ford that only saw the light of day when he had to drive up to town for supplies. It wasn't really fair to lump their car in with Jimmy's rustbucket, though, because it gleamed in the late afternoon light like something out of a fairytale. Yes, the low, sleek black vehicle could have rolled right off the set of some Hollywood movie with a growl that resonated somewhere deep in your chest and a wild dream of open roads and freedom.

The level of care obvious in the smooth glide of the car just didn't match up to the house it was parked at, but the man who owned both tied the two right together. On the surface, the man who stepped out of the car was rough, grimy, and broken. There was despair and exhaustion in the lines on his face, pain in the scars on his bare forearms, and hopelessness in the tear stains on his shirt. But in his stance there was power, raw and ready, like a panther, a predator. There was danger in those muscles and willpower in his expression, freedom in the tears on his jacket and determination in the thread that stitched them back together. The growl of the car's engine was echoed in his very being.

If that was all there was, a world weary man, a house falling apart, and a car from an age long gone by, Fran thought it would have been fine. But no, because after the chevy pulled into the driveway and rumbled to a stop, out came a boy who couldn't be much older than her Andy, twelve, thirteen at most. His clothes, like his father's, spoke of neglect and hardship, but that same raw power burned under the surface, untouched by the toils of time and experience. He was muscled and lean instead of gangly like most boys his age. It showed in the smooth, even steps that made his walk a confident stroll that Fran couldn't help but compare to the car he had just exited. He looked like he belonged there next to the old house, sleek car, and threadbare man, standing in too-big combat boots with sad eyes and proud shoulders

Then the third member of the little family had tumbled out of the back seat. He was a tiny thing, all floppy brown hair and stick figure limbs wrapped up in an oversized flannel. He didn't seem to notice his bare feet or the bangs that kept falling in front of his eyes, which was about as much as could be expected from a boy as young as him. He stood watching his brother and father unload bags from the car (surely a moving van was coming, that couldn't be all there was) for only a moment before joining in, and it was then that Fran realized the youngest boy was too strong not to have the same muscles as his older brother, despite his skinny frame. He picked up a duffle nearly as big as himself, swung it over his shoulder, and carried it inside without the smallest hint of a stumble.

And thus, the Winchester brothers moved into town. Their father disappeared early in the morning and didn't return until well after Andy's bedtime and never seemed to hire a babysitter for his boys, but Fran supposed the elder child was old enough to care for himself and his brother. Still, the lack of concern Mr. Winchester had for his sons was slightly worrisome. For goodness sakes, they weren't even in school!

Then Andy started coming home with stories of a boy, Dean, who had taken the school by storm with wild stories and leather jackets and cuss words and sarcastic remarks, a boy who had gotten himself more days of detention then he had yet been in school. A boy Andy wanted to invite over for dinner, because he was awesome and popular and stood up to the bullies that would have otherwise thrown Andy's bag into the mud.

Fran refused, obviously. She didn't want that kind of influence around her son. But God bless the fellow that could withstand Andy's puppy dog eyes for any length of time. Fran certainly couldn't. So plans were made for that Friday.

"Is it alright if Sam comes too? Dean says he can't leave his brother home alone, and I swear, Sam is a good kid. He's quiet and nice and smart and I promise he won't be any trouble!"

Fran just sighed and planned to make another serving of mashed potatoes. It was Thursday, she couldn't very well say no now.

Friday evening at exactly five-thirty there was a knock on the door. Fran ignored Andy's "I'll get it!" and abandoned her wooden spoon and apron to get her first real look at the Winchester boys.

Dean was a little tall for his age, and his strength was obvious even through thick flannel and baggy jeans. He had fiery emerald eyes that were too old for his youthful features, features that were pretty enough to be almost feminine. He was going to be a real looker when he grew up, that was for sure. Dean's smile was knife-sharp and secretive, a smile that could make a girl's (or boy's, for that matter) heart flutter, a smile that could strip away defences and make you believe anything he said. It put Fran completely at ease, which was an immediate warning sign.

Then there was Sam. Sam had dimples and hazel eyes and a cherub's face, and he looked so sickeningly adorable in his brother's oversized jacket that Fan almost broke down on the spot. He was holding on to the edge of his brother's shirt like it was the only rock in a hurricane, like it was the only thing protecting him from getting swept away. Even so, he had that same blazing confidence in his eyes, a surety in himself and his brother that came from hardship and pain and tears and knowing that no matter what the world threw at you, you weren't alone.

It was terrifying. Fran was a small-town girl. She had left her birthplace a total of eight times, and she was perfectly okay with that. Fran was willing to admit to herself that she didn't like being reminded of the big picture, of mortality, of the dangers and suffering and hate and pain in the world. It was all too easy to forget what was outside the town borders. There was security in ignorance. But these boys-these two young, pure, innocent boys-they were real. There was something about them, about their presence, that stripped away the daily lies and routine. It was comforting, in a way, but terrifying all the same. It brought back all the bad things and all the good and laid them out like it was somehow their right to see through the assumptions and stretched truths and misleading memories. It was reality undiluted.

Fran greeted them with a smile even as her mind recoiled, and Dean gave her a smile in return that said he knew what was going through her mind. Fran wished more than anything that she could turn them away, yell _gitout, go home, shoo,_ like they were a couple of stray dogs begging for scraps at her doorstep. With the hunger in their frail frames and the danger in their military stances, with the smiles that were seconds away from bared teeth and the predatory glint in their disturbingly intelligent eyes, they might as well have been.

There should have been some stirring of motherly instincts, some nudge in the back of her head that made her want to feed and hold and coddle the Winchester brothers. It was obvious that they didn't know a mother's love, obvious in the way Sam's sleeves needed to be rolled up, Dean's scrapes needed to be bandaged, both boys needed to be hugged. But no.

Instead, her instincts screamed to protect her own. Her mind urged to take Andy in her arms and drive those starving dogs away with a frying pan. Her fingers clenched around a non-existent weapon, ready to force them out of her home.

But Andy was bouncing on the balls of his feet a few steps behind her. The oven dinged. Sam gave her a nervous smile. And against her better judgement, she beckoned them inside.

The trio hurried upstairs to Andy's room. Fran retreated to the kitchen. She clutched the countertop, knuckles going white, and took deep breaths. What had come over her? They were just two little boys, not unlike her own. Just two hungry little boys. Two ragged, powerful, _feral_ little boys. Deep breaths. _Deep breaths._

She called them down to dinner not too much later. It was simple enough, just mashed potatoes, green peas, sliced carrots, leftover turkey, and rolls, but from the look on Sam and Dean's faces you might have thought she'd just handed them the moon on a silver platter. Something told her they didn't get home cooked meals often.

"This is fantastic, Mrs. Mendel!" Dean said enthusiastically.

"Thank you, Dean," she said, and since it looked like they were about to start shoveling food into their plates reminded them, "Now, let's all join hands and say grace."

Neither Sam nor Dean closed their eyes, but at least Sam had the decency to look down. The chorus of "Amen"s at the end seemed oddly reluctant. Fran didn't comment.

Dean, instead of immediately piling food on his plate like Fran had suspected he'd do, grabbed Sam's plate and started serving up large portions of everything available. Sam didn't protest. It seemed this was a normal occurrence.

The huge amounts of food both boys consumed (Dean only starting in on his after he'd observed that Sam had more than enough) ruined Fran's plans of copious leftovers. They far surpassed Andy, which was pretty hard to do. Fran would have been worried if she weren't so busy trying to convince herself that they weren't in any way, shape, or form dangerous to her and Andy.

They politely thanked her after the meal, offering to help clean up, and then took their leave at her refusal, much to Andy's disappointment. It was only after they'd left that Fran let herself recount the evening.

She noted the way Sam hadn't rebuked his vegetables, seemingly enjoying them just as much as the rest of his meal. She recalled Dean's jacket around Sam's shoulders, Dean's protective arm around his brother, the bruises on Dean's uncovered arms. She shuddered at the thought of their near-concave stomachs, at the protective way Dean guarded Sam with his every movement, at the practiced way Sam let him. And she sighed, rubbed the creases on her forehead, promised herself that she'd visit them tomorrow with leftovers and send an invite to another dinner with Andy.

She never got the chance.

Fran was so startled by the low rumble that was their car's engine that she stumbled right out of bed at five o'clock in the morning to see what was going on. Mr. Winchester had returned, and she set a mental reminder to go and give him a piece of her mind. It didn't matter what her personal thoughts on the Winchester brothers were, no child should be treated that way. They needed proper care, and it was obvious they weren't getting it.

She was stopped in her trek back to bed by their door slamming open and two boys, now recognizable as Sam and Dean, waddling through, limbs decorated with duffle bags bigger than their torsos. They popped the trunk and tossed the bags in before climbing in themselves and driving off into the night.

Fran would wonder about those boys for years to come. She'd wonder sitting on her porch sipping lemonade in her forties, rocking in her chair in the living room in her fifties, baking cookies in the kitchen in her sixties, laying in bed sick as a dog in her seventies, and in her eighties...well, by the time her eighties were over, she wouldn't be worrying about anything. Now, though, she just sat back down on her bed and wondered why she hadn't sent them off with extra servings of the rolls they'd seemed to enjoy so much.


End file.
